To those against whom I have sinned,There's no easy way for me to say this, so let me start with the most important part:I am sorry.I have done you wrong, and I am sorry.I have hurt you, and I am sorry.

For every time I had an advantage over you and used it to your disadvantage, I'm sorry.For every time I threw you into a crisis of self-doubt and self-hatred, I'm sorry.For every time I shouted at you, called you names, slandered you behind your back, excluded you, ridiculed you, and broke your heart, I'm sorry.For every time I chose my own interest at your expense and obfuscated the truth, I'm sorry.For every time I physically, mentally, verbally, and spiritually harmed you, I'm sorry.For every time I tried to come between you and the ones you loved, I'm sorry.For every time I chose the lazy way at your expense, I'm sorry.For every time my words or actions invited you to act or speak in ways you regret, I'm sorry.For every time I spoke or acted in any unkind, uncharitable, unloving way, I'm sorry.For these words that will probably never reach you, I'm sorry.For these words that you probably wouldn't believe anyway, I'm sorry.For every wrong that I have forgotten, I'm sorry.For everything I do in the future to convince you that I'm still as stony-hearted as ever, I'm sorry.I'm so sorry.All I have left to offer you is my open hands, waiting in emptiness to receive your undeserved forgiveness.With broken love,Kate

December 22O Rex gentium, et desideratus earum, lapisque angularis, qui facis utraque unum: veni, et salva hominem, quem de limo formasti.O King of the gentiles and their desired One, the cornerstone that makes both one: come, and deliver humankind, whom you formed out of the dust of the earth.

Advent has been longer this year for me than in any other year past. After all this anticipation, I find myself grateful that this year's Christmas will be quiet for my family. My desire for light is not the desire for commercial, clanging, self-absorbed brightness. My desire for light is one for something gentler--the sparkle in the eyes of my daughters and the joy in the eyes of my husband.

December 21O Oriens, splendor lucis aeternae, et sol iustitiae: veni, et illumina sedentes in tenebris et umbra mortis.O dawn of the east, brightness of light eternal, and sun of justice: come, and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.

A few years ago, I wanted to name my first child Aurora--not after the Disney princess, but after the rosy-fingered dawn. Christ is sometimes imagined as Apollo, the bringer of bright sun-fire, but I imagine Christ as those fuchsia streaks anointing the darkness with chrismic light. Today was also the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere, the darkest day of the year. On this day I think of John the Baptist, whose feast day is six months prior to this day, on the longest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere). It's the day when earthly light prepares to diminish, the same way John prepares: "He must increase, but I must decrease" (John 3:30).

O Key of David, and scepter of the house of Israel, who opens and no one shuts, who shuts and no one opens: come, and lead forth the captive who sits in the shadows from his prison.

Keys open and lock doors.I remember the day the doors of Historic St. Peter Church of Cleveland were locked, by order of the bishop of the diocese. I was standing outside along with my many fellow parishioners as our pastor followed orders. It was the closing of a tomb that had once been a stable. That day haunts me.I have never understood--and I'm sure I never will understood--the bullying of that bishop. Last night, while singing carols with the St. Brigid's Community of St. Augustine's Episcopal Church in Tempe, I came across my very favorite Christmas hymn, written by Richard Wilbur. I asked if anyone knew it, and no one did.It turns out that the version printed in the Hymnal 1982 is not the same version that I learned at St. Peter as a member of the choir early last decade. My usual search tricks failed in the effort to find a recording of it. The CD recorded by the choir (while I was studying in Berlin in 2002) is no longer for sale, either. Though the building is still there, and though the bishop was ordered by the Vatican to reopen its doors, the community that once worshiped there, the people who refused to be scattered, took roots elsewhere in the city, and there they remain, for the most part.This is a beautiful recording, but it is not the one I learned in the midst of that beautiful community, and I can't help feeling tremendous loss as I listen to it.

Love burns in my heart for the community of St. Peter, that breathtaking icon of God. But even in my anger, my hope refuses to be extinguished.A stable lamp is lighted whose glow shall wake the sky; the stars shall bend their voices, and every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, and straw like gold shall shine; a barn shall harbour heaven, a stall become a shrine. This child through David's city shall ride in triumph by; the palm shall strew its branches, and every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, though heavy, dull and dumb, and lie within the roadway to pave his kingdom come. Yet he shall be forsaken, and yielded up to die; the sky shall groan and darken, and every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry for gifts of love abused; God's blood upon the spearhead, God's blood again refused. But now, as at the ending, the low is lifted high; the stars shall bend their voices, and every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry in praises of the child by whose descent among us the worlds are reconciled.

O Root of Jesse, that stands for an ensign of the people, before whom the kings keep silence and unto whom the Gentiles shall make supplication: come, to deliver us, and tarry not.

Thirty-eight years ago, my mother gave birth to my brother. This morning, my sister gave birth to my nephew.This afternoon, I purchased the cassock with which I'll be vested on Candlemas next year when I enter the Benedictine Canon community of St. Mary of the Annunciation as a novice.All these beginnings--past, present, future--fill me with hope, love, and profound faith in the Divine Fire, the One who animates each of us with a bright, tireless flame.The root of Jesse runs deep.

O Wisdom, who came from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from end to end and ordering all things mightily and sweetly: come, and teach us the way of prudence.

When I studied at St. John's School of Theology in Collegeville, Minnesota, one of my favorite times of year to pray with the monks was in the last days before Christmas. December 17 was the day the O Antiphons, which famously make up the verses for "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel," began. The chant tones for these antiphons were haunting, especially when played on the thundering Holtkamp Organ.Now these antiphons come up during evensong/vespers/evening prayer for me at home. My electronic keyboard and fumbling fingers don't exactly emulate the sounds of St. John's Abbey, but praying in my little corner at home transports me right back to those tall, black choir stalls.